Glencoe Read online

  A thousand small streams from north and south create the River Coe. At The Meeting of the Waters, below the Little Herdsman of Etive, it leaps westward over a wall of rock, and now the Pass of Glencoe truly begins, wild and independent in its moods. The river runs musically into black pools, or over wide shallows and rippled stones of white and pink and blue. In the middle of the glen, where Aonach Eagach rises imperially from purple shadows, there is an urlar, an open valley floor on which the Coe swells into the quiet loch of Achtriachtan. It narrows again in half a mile, and by the mouth of Gleann Leac it turns northward to a meadow called Achnacone, the Field of the Dogs. Within the oxbow thus formed is a conical hill, a massive outcrop from the top of which a man can see almost all of the glen, and for two and a half centuries it has been known as Signal Rock. In the two miles of the glen that are left, between Achnacone and Loch Leven, the land is wide and green, well timbered and hospitable, watched by Sgòr na Ciche and the brown hill of Meall Mòr.

  Macaulay translated Glencoe's name as The Glen of Weeping, having no Gaelic and trusting to his imagination when in doubt. None can be certain what it means, except that it has nothing to do with grief. To some it is The Glen of Dogs, and so the MacDonald bards called it, remembering Bran and the other hounds of Fingal, who was also Fionn MacCumhail. To others it is the glen of comhan-taisg, the common store of plunder which his followers, the Feinn, hid in the hills. Seventeen hundred years ago, according to the mythology, these long-haired Fingalian giants made their home in Glencoe, sailed their galleys to Ireland and the Hebrides, hunted with their dogs in Appin, and followed their warrior passions across Rannoch to the south. In Glencoe the land remembers them, and Ordnance Survey maps keep faith with the legends. The harsh, western spur of Aonach Eagach is called Sgòr nam Fionnaidh, the Cliff of the Feinn. At the end of Fionn MacCumhail's glen is Fingal's Gorge. Above Loch Achtriachtan is a cave where Ossian, the poet son of Fionn, composed heroic verse of which no true line has survived. Along Bidean nam Bian and Aonach Eagach, on every mountain in Scotland, three thousand of the Feinn are sleeping. Their breathing is the wind, and one day they will arise at the call of Fingal's horn.

  In Glencoe and along Loch Levenside the Feinn fought their great battles with the Vikings. Forty shield-lined galleys, one made from wood of the sacred yew, brought the Scandinavians to the narrows at Ballachulish, where the ship of yew foundered and sank. On a field by Laroch, now covered with man-made mountains of slate, Earragan King of the Norsemen set up his tents and ordered Fionn MacCumhail to yield. The young men of the Feinn were away hunting the deer, but being a smooth-tongued, plausible man, as were all Celtic heroes, Fionn argued with Earragan and so passed the time until his spearmen and bowmen and swordsmen came home with their dogs. He dug four great trenches on the brae between the Pap of Glencoe and Sgòr nam Fionnaidh,* filled them with his warriors, and waited for the Vikings to come. In the thousand years of telling, in the passing of the story from father to son, in the improvisation of the bards, what was probably a savage and bloody mêlée became a formalized ritual of honour and courage. Earragan, it was said, chose seven score of his best men and invited Fionn to send an equal number against them. The offer was accepted. One hundred and forty of the Feinn came down to Achnacone and defeated the Vikings. A similar contest was fought the next day, and the next, and the next for a week, and although many men were killed on both sides the Norsemen's losses were greater than those of the Feinn. On the eighth day Earragan drew up the whole of his army before his camp at Laroch, westward a mile from the mouth of Glencoe, and the Feinn swarmed down against it. The battle was fierce and merciless. Men pursued each other up the side of Meall Mòr, or stood to their waists in the red water of Loch Leven, hewing with sword and axe. Earragan was killed by a giant Fingalian called Goll MacMorna, and at this the Norsemen broke and ran. Many were stabbed, or axed, or shot in the back with arrows as they floundered towards their galleys, and the survivors were only enough to fill two of the forty ships that had brought them to Laroch. And these two ships, it was said, were lost on their way home to their fjords. The dead of the Norse and the Feinn were buried on the field of Laroch, their commanders in stone coffins beneath high cairns, and traces of these heroic sepulchres may be there still among the blue cones of slate, the bungalows and the railway line.

  Fionn MacCumhail had won no real victory. Never again, the bards said, were his Feinn a band of warriors as bold and as terrible as they had been. Something endured, however, an example of bloody and savage war, a mythology that inspired. Until sheep drove out both men and their legends, a century and a half ago, a stranger was always welcome at a MacDonald fireside in Glencoe, or in any township in the Highlands, if he could respond to the gentle inquiry, ‘Can you tell tales of Fingal?’

  After the Feinn and the Norsemen came Christians, wandering saints from Ireland and the Isles who planted the Cross firmly, even though they did not succeed in blunting the Sword. The Gospels merged happily with tales of Fingal, and that was perhaps the most that any simple monk could expect. Fillan had a cell and a chapel in the east by Glen Etive. Mundus came from Iona with Columba's blessing and lived on a necklace of small islands in the middle of Loch Leven, eight hundred yards from Invercoe. His chapel was still in use on Saint Barnabas' Day in 1485, eight centuries later. MacDonalds of Glencoe, Stewarts of Ballachulish, and Camerons from the north across the water buried their dead on Eilean Munde, generation by generation. The body was brought to a traditional landing-place, and if bad weather prevented it from being taken ashore there it was rowed back to await a better day, for a man, it was said, should follow the footsteps of his father. MacDonalds, Stewarts and Camerons each claimed Eilean Munde, but did not fight over it. They cropped its hay in rotation, and what other disputes they had that were not settled by war were resolved by debate on the Isle of Discussion close by.

  Glencoe was clan land before the MacDonalds came to it. It was part of the medieval lordship of Lorn and was held by the MacDougalls, but MacDougall of Lorn chose the wrong side in the quarrels of Robert the Bruce and lost what he held to Angus Og of Islay who, choosing the right side, had brought his MacDonalds to fight for the Bruce at Bannockburn. Clan Donald was a proud and contentious tribe, its chief claiming descent from Conn of the Hundred Battles, High King of Ireland, from Colla the Prince of the Isles, and from Fergus the first ruler of the Scoto-Irish Kingdom of Dalriada. When Angus Og's son, remembering this impressive lineage, took the title of Lord of the Isles he was declaring his superiority over all and his ultimate loyalty to none. The MacDonalds peopled the Hebridean Isles from the Butt of Lewis to South Uist, from Skye to Jura and Islay. On the mainland they held Lochaber, Ardnamurchan and Kintyre. In Ireland they filled the Glens of Antrim. Whatever compromise history forced upon them, whatever bitter defeats they suffered, they believed themselves to be the leaders and the lords of Gaeldom, and as such the inevitable rivals of the Kings of Scotland, by whom they could be persuaded or bought but never successfully ruled. Even when the title was taken from the Lord of the Isles, a hundred and fifty years after his ancestor had assumed it, the MacDonalds remained intractable in their claims, resentful of government by the south and at odds with all who represented it. They never forgot what they once had held, and never forgave those who had taken it from them. Few peoples have had longer memories or shorter tempers.

  The MacDonalds of Glencoe were the smallest branch of Clan Donald, but the equal of all in touchy pride. The first of them came early in the fourteenth century. He was Angus Og's bastard, Iain Og nan Fraoch – Young John of the Heather, also called Iain Brach, John of Lochaber. The land was a gift from his indulgent father, and it was from him that the Glencoe chiefs took their title MacIain, and their bonnet badge of heather. With such a progenitor the bards of Clan Iain Abrach could unroll each successive MacIain's ancestry back to Angus Og and Angus Mor, to Donald and Ranald and Somerled the scourge of the Norsemen, to Colla the Prince and to Conn the High King of Ireland. A whole win
ter's evening at Invercoe could be pleasantly passed listening to such a splendid genealogy.

  Having been given one of the sweetest glens in the Highlands, John of the Heather had then to impose his right to it upon the MacEanruigs, the Hendersons, who were already living there. According to one tradition he did this in the old manner, by beating the fact into their heads, and according to another in a manner equally old, by marrying the daughter of their chief. MacDonalds and MacEanruigs lived amicably together and, in the solacing way time has, there were Hendersons in Glencoe long after MacIain's power was gone.

  Though the MacDonalds held Glencoe it was not theirs in free holding. When the Lord of the Isles lost his title in 1493, the power of Clan Donald began its slow decline. The King of Scotland distributed MacDonald lands among those more inclined to respect and defend his authority, and the life-rent of Glencoe went to Duncan Stewart of Appin (though the King charitably acknowledged MacIain as the possessor thereof, provided the feuduty was paid to the Stewarts). MacDonalds and Stewarts occasionally fell out, settling their differences with lively swordplay, or by feasting and debate on the Isle of Discussion, but for most of the time they lived in amity, it being the sensible opinion of a Highland chief that no matter how strong might be the natural defences of his property, they were all the stronger with good neighbours.

  Half a century later, during the minority of Mary Queen of Scots, the Earl of Argyll became the feudal superior of Appin and the Campbell writ began to run in Glencoe. This was the age of Clan Campbell's growth. It had already profited from the forfeiture of the Lordship of the Isles by acquiring Clan Donald land in Kintyre, Colonsay and Ardnamurchan. What it did not get by force it got by guile or by bargaining with the Crown, and all it got it held by Law. With each step forward taken by the Campbells of Argyll, Clan Donald took one step back. Enmeshed by their own dreaming, relying on mythology when their opponents were employing lawyers, the MacDonalds' resentment of southern authority grew more and more bitter, and with it their hatred of the Campbells who were frequently the Highland arm of that authority. What legend has presented as a senseless blood-feud was more properly a long civil war for the leadership of the Gaels. This rivalry lay beneath all the political, religious or dynastic issues over which Campbell and MacDonald clashed.

  In the resistance to a central government and to the house of Argyll, the MacDonalds of Glencoe were as steadfast as any branch of Clan Donald, and more enduring than some. For nearly two centuries after the burial of John of the Heather on Iona in 1338, they lived an unrecorded life in the shadows of Aonach Eagach. When they emerged again into history it was in opposition to the Campbells and in defence of the ancient claims of the MacDonalds. In 1500 the lords of Argyll, making their first cautious move into Appin, tried to evict ‘John of the Ilis, uther-wyis Abrochsoune’ from his land in Glencoe. Although the Campbells had the support of the Lords of Council in Edinburgh, the attempt was probably no more than paper-thin, but it was a warning to the Glencoe men. The next year they broke down the doors of Argyll's castle at Innischonnell and liberated Donald Dubh, the claimant to the Lordship of the Isles, thus making it plain that their only loyalty was to the line of Angus Og. This stubborn view, and authority's reaction to it, was to make Glencoe's proud or squalid story for the next two hundred years.

  In the seventeenth century the Highland way of life reached its zenith and began its bright fall to extinction. The people of Glencoe, like most in the mountains, felt no sympathy with the outside world. Though they would range far to steal cattle or sell their own, to fight as mercenaries or join in wars that promised but never brought a return of Clan Donald's power, the Valley of Dogs was enough for them. It was the country of the Feinn and the home of the Saints. If wild boar and wolf were now gone, it was still the land of marten and wildcat, of fox and badger. Eagle and kite swam in the currents above Aonach Eagach. There were red deer on Rannoch. Linnet and thrush sang with blackbirds in the oaks at Achnacone, and larks climbed above the stillness of Achtriachtan. On the meadows in spring were primroses and hyacinths. By the river grew cherry and willow, elderberry and briar. The west winds brought swans from the Outer Isles to feed on water weeds in the river pools. Herring were silver-bright in Loch Leven, and above them hung the sails of ships from Ireland and France. ‘Traveller, you are welcome here’, was the people's greeting to those who came in friendship.

  In the last year of the century William Sacheverell, onetime Governor of the Isle of Man, made a voyage to Iona and the Western Highlands, and published his impressions for the diversion of England and the Lowlands.

  I thought myself [he said] entering upon a new scene of nature, but nature tough and unpolished, and (if I may be allowed the expression) in her undress. I generally observed the men to be large-bodied, stout, subtle, active, patient of cold and hunger. There appeared in all their actions a certain generous air of freedom and contempt for those trifles, luxury and ambition, which we so servilely creep after. They bound their appetites by their necessities, and their happiness consists not in having much but in coveting little. The women seemed to have the same sentiments with the men; though their habits were mean, and they had not our sort of breeding, yet in many of them was a natural beauty and graceful modesty which never fails of attracting.

  The greatest number of swordsmen sent to war by Clan Iain Abrach was a hundred and fifty, and from this it may be assumed that the population of the glen was rarely more than five hundred, and frequently less. The people lived in little townships between Achtriachtan and Loch Leven, at Carnoch on the mouth of the river where MacIain had his winter house, at Brecklet westward where Fingal slaughtered the Norsemen, at Inverrigan below Meall Mòr, on the field of the dogs at Achnacone and at Leacantuim by the Cliff of the Feinn. The most easterly of the townships was on the loch beneath Aonach Eagach, although over Lairig Gartain in Glen Etive the tenant of Dalness and his people also acknowledged MacIain as their chief. The thickest settlement was at the entrance to Gleann Leac na Muidhe, creamy water and slopes as smooth as stone giving it its name of the Valley of Slate and Churn. Deep in the higher folds of Gleann Leac was MacIain's summer home, where the hills hold back the wind and bright insects spin in the heavy heat. In winter it is a funnel of snow and the wind makes up for summer idleness.

  The land at Carnoch and in Gleann Leac was MacIain's and his sons'. The tacks, the leases to the remaining townships were granted at MacIain's will to others of his kin, all of them descendants of John of the Heather, and they paid their rents in kind or by bringing out their sub-tenants in arms when the chief demanded, when his summons flamed on Signal Rock. It was a cattle economy and a warrior society, and MacIain counted his wealth in those hundred and fifty fighting-men.

  The appearance of the people matched their background.

  The usual habit of both sexes [said Sacheverell] is the plaid; the women's much finer, the colours more lively, and the squares larger than the men's, and put me in mind of the ancient Picts. The men wear theirs after another manner, especially when designed for ornament, it is loose and flowing, like the mantles our painters give their heroes. Their thighs are bare with brawny muscles. Nature has drawn all her strokes bold and masterly. What is covered is only adapted to necessity, a thin brogue on the foot, a short buskin of various colours on the legs, tied above the calf with a striped pair of garters. What should be concealed is hid with a large shot-pouch, on each side of which hangs a pistol and a dagger; as if they found it necessary to keep those parts well guarded. A round target on their backs, a blue bonnet on their heads, in one hand a broadsword, and a musket in the other. Perhaps no nation goes better armed, and I assure you they will handle them with bravery and dexterity, especially the sword and target.

  However impressed Sacheverell and other southerners were by the carriage of Highland men and the grace of the women, they were usually disgusted by the houses in which these heroic figures lived, comparing them to cow-byres, to dung-hills and the earths of wild animals. Cro
uching together on the slopes of the hills, the cottages appeared to be some strange fungoid growth, smoking with sickly heat. But they were built against the weather. Their thick drystone walls were less than the height of an average man, and above them was raised a roof-tree, covered with divots of earth and thatch held down against the wind by roped stones. Inside were comfort and protection for men, women, children and animals. Windows, where they existed, were glassless. A central hole in the roof, or at one gable, sucked up the draught for an open fire. Peat-smoke thickened the air, blackened the dry-stone walls, and red-rimmed the eyes of men and cattle. Each house was an expression of the people's unity and interdependence. Each was built by all the township and in one day. As the stones were passed from hand to hand, the timber raised and the divots laid, the workers sang and told tales. At sunset the house was blessed, as much by sweat as by appeals to the saints or by charms placed at its door. A Highlander's home was made from his land and was the foundation of his spiritual strength. ‘To your roof-tree!’ he said, wishing a man well. And the houses endured longer than the people, mute, eyeless, and open to the sky.

  MacIain had no defensive keep, no black castle on an island like other chiefs. Of his house at Carnoch nothing remains, though the last stones were rolled into the river within memory. It stood below the Pap of Glencoe and, probably two storeys high, its walls washed with lime and its roof covered with blue slate from Ballachulish. Inside, its austerity was luxury compared with the cottages of the people, the light of torches and candles on undraped stone, a council-room and rooms for privacy, books bought or stolen, a broad table for feasting, charter chests for papers and cupboards for fine cloths and foreign lace, glass to hold claret and a silver quaich for MacIain's whisky.